Richmond dispatch. [volume] (Richmond, Va.) 1884-1903, 1887-05-01

he fell as II II mnst speak plainly TO the
world.
After this he thought he would painI
no more. He was conscious OF O curl
ous failing; numbness OF brain Q
forgdtfulnoss Mt times. He told himself
that his day was done that he would
retire on this one great achievement,
this message Of his sorrow and love,
end then give himself up to loneliness,
| TO prnyer-trying TO knit his soul with
that other soul that would soon be
beyond Bis voice. He thought al
times with a certain, longing OF the
Roman Catholic Church OF re-
tIeats of tho still, dim churches
where lo had wandered in his
travelling days; Of lying at the foot oil
a crucifx in the silence and calling
upon the Christ who had suffered per-
bops. though his Protestant conscience
recoiled, he thought of the Mary whose
nome was so dear and sacred to him.
He felt alnoet happy in moments when
thus seated at this great picture OF his.
which WAS to be his masterpiece, when
his mind SCARED into spiritual visions
and life seemed mere short dream to
be soon got through.
Fefore the picture was finished his
wife died. He crswled back the day
after the funeral 20 his studio and
painted again. He seemed less lonely
there than anywhere else, and he
painted on, half unconscious. ltseemed
to him all right and beautiful he fam
ciCd that an angel guided his hand.
No one saw the picture in the studio ;
people called and left kind messages,
bnt he saw no one. He scarcely ate or
slept, but grew every day grayer, moro
wasted, more altered; but he was
not go utterly miserable till the
picture-his only one-was sent
to the Academy. Then his work
in life seemed done; he could not
paint any more. He could only sit
before his easel looking with blank,
unseeing eyes on n blank canvas and
waiting till his picture should speak for
bin to the world. This was all that he
had looked forward to--only O chill
phantom Of hopo but still feebly
| glimmering upon the dark of his long,
lone. dreary, companionless days. He
sat in the studio motionless before the
empty canvas on the easel, thinking of
the early married years, when Mary sat
and worked there, stopping her stitching
and hemming to watch and admire /;
when they still hoped for the children
to make their. blithe noise in the large,
quiet rooms, when youth and hope and
enjoyment were their portion. He got
up sometimes, moved by he knew not
what vague impulse, and wandered
into the room, where, during those sad
last months, which now seemed almost
bliss 10y comparison, she had lain so
white and patient on that couch which
was now smoothed down and empty
like everything else.
he talked to himself or to her, found
himself asking questions and waiting
for an answer when only silence Knocked
his ear he was terrified as il by q
crime, and thought himself growing an
infidel, because it seemed to him that
when be called on Heaven there WAS 81
ltnce, too, and only untenanted space
all round him.
Poor Sebastian Doubt had always
been one of the sins of the world in his
eyes, and even in his anguish of be-
rcayement and his sense of forsakenness
bis spirit was struggling against it with
what force remained to him. The SER
wants, who liked him-for he WAS q kind
master, though dist ant, one-shook
their heads over his looks and ways he
was not himself, they said, meaning
much by the phrase, which, indeed.
Was most true. He was not himself
he had been torn asunder from the
main support of his life, and the clutch
OF Giant Despair was on his heart.
A faint CLEAN Of something like in
terest in the world revisited him on
the day on which the Academy orened.
He tried not to dwell upon the re-
membrane of all the other opening
days, when mis- proud, adoring wife
had been with him, and all the exhibit
ton conferred 10 her IN her particular
II. AS seven or eight big pictures
when she CLEANED all the compliments
Nv remarks (alas scanty enough lately
made by country folks, and women
chiefly, which she could repeat to him,
and refused to hear the SCOTS and rude
laughter that sometimes passed by her
hero's work.
This great picture of his, his Gale
CORY of Life and Death, painted, it
seemed to him, with his very hearts
blood, which meant to him all that was
most sacred, tenderest, noblest in his
mind, this must touch even a careless
and depraved public, aud speak from
him to them as deep calls to deep. He
took up his place near it. not from
vanity now-he had had his days
Of vanity and self-conceit, he had
been blinded by an ingenious,
not unlovable, sort Of egotism
ever since the old days of his stu
dentship, when Hamlin abused him for
his fatal facility" and "want OF
devil but he was moved now by q
different spirit it was more the long
ing for human sympathy, by a desireto
force the thoughtless world into an
affinity with what seemed to the man
broken with grief the only mood worth
attaining in this life of ours, with its
momentary possibilities OF disaster an I
misery. He listened, with all his soli
on the stretch, with every nerve quiyer-
ing for this touch, with All acuteuess of
herring unusual to him. for the words
OF the psssers-hy.
He heard one after another as they
Iausod to give curious, amused,
cui sorry glance at tits work of his sr-
pr NEST moments-throw il a light.
frivolous remark. He heari
men say: "Old Fellowes again Why,
he must be in his second childhood.
Isn't it preposterous to cover the walls
with this sort of stuff" He heard toe |
voice of girls and boys: "Oh, !
goodness, what a picture! What does
it all mean? What's this great sprawl |
ing creature with the green face doing? |
v bat are all these miscellaneous things |
about here for? Chains and |
money and fowers-hke an old curl
osity shopl Isn't it too amusing?"
Every light, jesting word stung him
like whip of nettles. Amusing |
Absurd His great picture. his concep- |
lion OF the deepest, most tragical reali-
ties of life and sorrow He started
suddenly from his leaning Dosition and |